


for the caged bird sings of freedom

by greatduwangs



Category: One Piece
Genre: :) this is fine, ASL Brothers, Angst, Dark Sabo (One Piece), Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Monkey D. Luffy Needs a Hug, Royalty, Sabo-centric (One Piece), Slavery, Tenryuubito | Celestial Dragons | World Nobles, and to hurt him and Luffy and Ace, but eventually, this is just an excuse to write Prince Sabo excuse me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:34:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28477740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greatduwangs/pseuds/greatduwangs
Summary: Dragons were the ones who ruled the heavens, who soared above all.  It was unbecoming of one to desire to live down on earth.//Sabo knows nothing of his past.  Im knows, though.  Im always knows best.In which Im finds themselves in need of an heir, and the newest slave at Mariejois seems to be the perfect candidate.
Relationships: Im & Sabo (One Piece), Monkey D. Luffy & Portgas D. Ace & Sabo, Monkey D. Luffy & Sabo, Portgas D. Ace & Sabo
Comments: 5
Kudos: 30





	for the caged bird sings of freedom

_ A free bird leaps on the back of the wind  _

It’s strange, he thinks, that there was an entire world out there to explore, yet the town seems insistent on caging its residents in. 

He can see it - the bars that lock them in houses, the corsets holding the women in place and the stiff suits that restrain the men from running out and  _ living _ . Their very hearts are locked and sealed away, to the point that they would turn their noses up at the screams of those begging for mercy. Its a cage of their own creation, and he wants no part of it.

Why did he want no part of it?

He couldn’t move, he couldn’t speak. All he could do was lay down and stare at the wooden ceiling, counting the planks as his body swayed gently back and forth. A bandage is wrapped around one of his eyes, as well as most of his body - and something is strapping him down to a bed. The last thing he remembers is an awful sensation encapsulating the left side of his body, and then nothing. But that’s not the problem here. It also happens to be the  _ only  _ thing he remembers.

Oh, he remembers  _ feelings _ ,  _ information _ \- he knows he detests nobles, and he knows that there are four seas - five, including the Grand Line. But he doesn’t  _ remember  _ himself. No name comes to the tip of his tongue, and any attempt to look back into his past is only met with an orange glow within his mind. Fire, he presumes, which would explain the numb feeling in his body.

The boy would cry, if it did not hurt to do so. Instead of weeping, he wonders. Wonders of where he is, of what would happen to him. He would welcome death, if a voice in the back of his mind did not scream at him for thinking so.

“You gave everyone a nasty shock out there.”

The voice is serene, and it sends shivers down his spine. He cannot move his head, so it’s up to the stranger to come into his own view. Just out of the corner of his eye, he spots a flash of orange - not the warm kind, like the fire that once engulfed him, but a harsh, sharp kind. One that clashes with the black the stranger is wearing.

It’s a woman, he thinks to himself. Danger. Danger.

Get out.

“It is thanks to the kindness and generosity of our Saint that you were rescued,” she continues. It’s almost as if she’s preaching, and he wishes desperately he could escape. The last thing he wants is a  _ lesson _ . “Tell me, do you know why you are here?”

He cannot move, nor open his mouth, so he merely stares at her general direction and waits. Minutes pass by, and he can feel her gaze boring into the side of his skull, until finally she steps forward and comes into his field of vision.

She has a sharp nose, sharp eyes, sharp lips, sharp cheekbones - everything about her is  _ sharp _ . As if she were made of razor blades. Yet freckles litter on her sun-kissed skin, and her curly bright orange hair is braided in a way that reminds him of a flower he had seen but could not remember, and she  _ smiles _ with a grin that looks like honey. None of this does anything to appease him, however, and he finds himself locked in a staring match with her. It’s only when she sighs and looks away that he breaks eye contact. The ceiling is much more interesting, anyway.

“As I suspected. Your head trauma renders you unable to move or speak.”

A quill scratching on paper. She’s writing something down.

“I suppose it would be useless to ask for your name,” she says. She tuts, as if it’s somehow his fault that he’s incapable of moving. “Mine is Doctor Hymn. A pleasure to meet you.”

Unfortunately, it isn’t much of a pleasure for him. In fact, it’s rather unnerving, and a bit stressful.

“I will be your Doctor for this trip. You should consider yourself lucky you survived the accident.” He feels her hand - warm yet not in a comforting way - rest upon his forehead. He winces. “I will begin to ask you some yes or no questions. You will respond with blinking. One long blink means yes, two means no. Understand?”

He’s not exactly sure he’s in the right mindset to be answering questions. After all, he’s still delirious from whatever ordeal he had been through, and everything happening now is driving him into a state of panic. But Doctor Hymn’s grip on his forehead tightens, and he finds himself shutting his eyes before opening them again.

“Good, good. Now. . .”

The floorboard creaks as her hand is removed from his forehead. She’s stepping away, scribbling something more down, and humming to herself. 

“Were you planning on assassinating our Saint?”

He blinks twice. She’s talking absolute nonsense to him. Even if he couldn’t remember a thing about his past, he got the sense he wasn’t the kind of person to  _ kill  _ others.

“Are you currently dissatisfied with the World Government and its system of governance?”

What a strange question, especially to one such as himself - a child. He blinks twice, because he feels blinking once would be a mistake. But in his heart, he feels something stir within him, and it takes him a moment to realise he’s lying to her. 

Why was he lying?

“That’s wonderful to hear. Now, are you a strong young man?”

He can’t move a muscle, so he instead rolls his eyes and gazes at her general direction and waits.

“Not when you’re injured, of course,” Doctor Hymn clarifies.

He blinks once. At least, he assumes so.

“Very well.” She sets aside her notepad and quill, and takes a seat next to him. “You’ve passed the test.”

_ What test _ , he wants to ask, but of course nothing escapes his lips. Doctor Hymn seems to understand his confusion, though, and continues.

“Discard your name. It doesn’t exist anymore.”

A sentiment that would work if he could just  _ remember  _ his name.

“From now on, you will be called 0731.”

0731 shivers.

* * *

  
  


It takes 0731 only a day to understand the meaning behind her words, and to know exactly where he is. Well, not exactly - but he senses  _ something  _ is important about where he is, and that it doesn’t bode well for him. As far as he knows, he’s on a ship, he’s in some sort of medical area, and there are some very,  _ very  _ important passengers on board.

Doctor Hymn, the only person he has been allowed to see so far, refers to these passengers as ‘Saints’, speaking with such reverence as if they were holy creatures. 0731 can only assume that they’re either actual Gods, or they were simply nobles who had become so twisted in their self-worth and ego that they thought themselves to be so.

Something tells him it’s the latter.

Whatever the case may be, he isn’t allowed to see them. Not yet, anyway. Doctor Hymn tells him he’s too sickly to see anyone but her, and he knows for a fact it’s true. Just the mere act of breathing, of his chest moving slowly up and down in ragged gasps, is painful. Moving his body around - now that is physically impossible.

As for his company, she’s not  _ bad  _ company, but something about her sets alarm bells in his head. From the way she dresses in a blinding white, to her vaguely familiar hair that he couldn’t quite place, to the freckles dotting her skin that looked so out of place with her cold eyes. Every word that came from her tongue reeked of honey and venom, and now, as he lays down alone, he feels grateful she’s not there. Probably off worshipping her saints, or something.

He would snort, if it weren’t agonizing to do so. 

It just leaves the case of  _ what  _ exactly he is now. And he has a inclination he knows what that is.

Slavery.

Despite his amnesia, he’s still very much aware of the term and concept. The disgust runs down his spine and he shudders. The very idea that one human being could be considered  _ lesser  _ than another, to the point that they’d be kept as  _ pets _ , is sickening. Yet here he is, a slave in all but his heart - his name already taken - travelling to  _ who knows where  _ and being stuck with  _ who knows who _ . He hears screams and cries from somewhere on the ship, and wrathful yells, and then silence. His imagination goes wild, and 0731, for an instance, considers biting his own tongue off.

He doesn’t, of course. Something in the back of his mind tells him not to. But the instinct is still there.

The door creaks open, and the clack of high heels against wood resounds across the entire room. 0731 knows who it is, from the three times she’s been in already. Doctor Hymn, here to check up on him no doubt.

As far as answers go, she’s told him nothing. Not that he exactly  _ asks  _ many questions, considering the whole cannot move and talk situation, but that’s beside the point. She keeps secrets close to her chest, and while he’s sure she’s never lied to him, she’s never told the full truth either. Instead she gospels and speaks of her saints and expects him to know what she’s referring to.

“The blood samples have been completed,” she says. She’s somewhere behind 0731, fiddling around on what he presumes to be a desk. “You have no illnesses, as far as I can tell. As for your current condition. . .”

He feels her gaze bore into his skull.

“You’ll have to bear with it for a little while longer. Once we get to Mariejois, you’ll be at the hands of the finest doctors in the world.”

The name Mariejois is unfamiliar to him, but it’s an indication of where he’s going, at least. If only he knew where that is.

Something sharp pokes into the back of his spine, and suddenly it feels like knives are sticking into his back. It takes him a moment to register that Doctor Hymn is lifting him up. Not that it makes it any less painful. He wants to scream, to cry, but any words hurt to say. She seems to understand he’s in pain, however.

“This is only temporary. We can’t have you drinking when you’re lying down, can we?” she says.

He wants to curse her, but all that comes out is a pathetic whimper. 

Doctor Hymn pours out a glass of water and brings it to his lips. He’s parched, he realises, so he swallows it gladly. Yet it  _ stings  _ and  _ hurts  _ down his throat. Tears build up in the corner of his eyes, and he grimaces. Doctor Hymn looks mildly concerned. He wonders if she’ll be his solace during this time.

“We’ll have to fix that soon,” she says. “Our Saint would not want a product that cannot even drink.”

His heart breaks into pieces, and he loses whatever semblance of hope he has left. As she straps him back into the bed, he’s dumbfounded.

“We’ll be arriving at Reverse Mountain soon. Brace yourself.”

With that, she’s gone, and leaves him alone yet again.

0731 wants to scream and break free. He  _ wants  _ to kick everyone’s ass and go someplace else and to  _ be free _ . Free of his shackles, free of this world, free of his fate. Everything about now is choking him to death, it’s gripping his heart tightly and ripping it apart. It’s not just about his injuries. It’s not physical. 

Not that they help much with that, either. The injuries, that is.

So, instead, he stares at the ceiling, and begins counting in his head again. He’s almost up to the final plank he can see when a sudden jolt breaks him out of his concentration, and the feeling of the straps scraping against his wounds sends him on fire.

Chaos is happening outside. He can hear that, at least. Screams, muffled yelling,  _ rushing water _ . It almost sounds like a waterfall. Then, the entire ship rattles and shakes, and with it so does he.

To say that it is painful would be an understatement. It is  _ excruciatingly  _ so. His body is in no condition to move, let alone so violently, so being jerked around like that . . . it did not do him any favours. It lasts for about two minutes before there’s a moment where he’s almost floating off his bed, kept down only by the straps, until he lands straight back down and the shaking begins again.

“Ah - Ah!”

His voice finally comes to him, in a hoarse whisper - but his voice nonetheless. And at what a spectacular time, too! For he was, as far as he was aware, about to  _ die _ from the violent jerking and his injuries. 

Never again. He never wants to go through that ordeal again. Now the ship rocks gently, as if it’s on calm waters once again. A clock ticks nearby, voice from above still muffled and still yelling, albeit quieter than before.

Staring at the ceiling, he begins to sob. 

It doesn’t take long for 0731 to scream.


End file.
